‘No, I told you before buddy, no eating in the back of the rental car.’
‘But Rose is eating a mandarin.’
‘Am not,’ his sister replied with a full mouth.
‘Put all the peel in your lunchbox,’ Oliver ordered. ‘And no spilling juice.’
By the time he got into the city and found a park he was running a few minutes late for the meeting. All the way in he’d dithered over what to do with the kids, leave them outside or take them in. The gallery was in the city square and had lots of foot traffic, and exits, so leaving them outside wasn’t an attractive option. But neither was having them destroy valuable art work. More than once he wished he’d left them at after school care.
(Why didn’t you?)
He ignored her.
In the end he took them through the front doors of the gallery and sat them down on the small leather couch opposite the reception. He handed them his phone and optimistically said not to argue over what to watch, then had a brief argument with Debbie who wanted to stay with the two children.
The gallery was a rabbit warren of a two-story repurposed office building from an era when open plan offices were a distant dream. Small rooms occasionally merged into big rooms, and every corner turned was an adventure in the possibility of getting lost. The walls of the first display room Oliver went into were lined with black and white photos of people, some simple portraits, others action shots. He stopped to look at one of a young girl sitting at the bottom of a slide, reaching up towards a woman, face screwed up in anguish at some just-happened tragedy.
(That’s sad. Why would anyone take a photo of that?)
‘It’s a forever moment in time,’ he murmured. He looked at the sign underneath which proclaimed the photographer was Emily. Just Emily, like her surname wasn’t important.
From the next room Oliver could hear the soft sound of voices in conversation. He walked over to the open entrance way and peered through the gap. The room seemed to be a continuation of the photo exhibit, and in the far corner he spotted Alice talking to someone. Casually Oliver drifted towards them, stopping every now and then to study a photo. He began to catch snippets of conversation, the man talking animatedly, using his hands as well as his words, while Alice stood completely still, except for the occasional head nod.
By the time he got within a few feet of them Oliver was convinced Alice hadn’t seen him, and felt a warm glow of satisfaction that he could be sneaky to people other than his children.
He readied himself to take the final few steps forward, but before he could move Alice turned to him and smiled.
‘What do you think, Oliver?’
The man next to her looked over his shoulder in surprise.
(Nick!)
How do you know? You haven’t seen him in forty years.
‘What do I think about what?’ Oliver returned her smile and closed the gap between them.
(I just know.)
The man looked to be the right age, around mid-fifties. He was lean with a hint of muscle poking out of each rolled up shirt sleeve. His brown hair was trimmed short and didn’t contain a single grey, which Oliver considered to be very unfair. A neat moustache and goatee looked like they’d been tattooed onto his face, not a hair too long or facing the wrong direction.
(Told you!)
It took him a moment to understand the reason behind Debbie’s gloat. Then he spotted the black named tag pinned to the man’s blue shirt. White letters proclaimed him to be Nick Rawlings, Acquisitions Director.
‘Mr Rawlings was telling me that photos are a better investment these days than traditional paintings.’
Oliver’s smiled widened and he thought it was a good thing that Nick had no idea who he was talking to.
(What’s a forger?)
I’ll tell you later.
‘Oliver Atkinson,’ he said, holding out his hand.
The hand that gripped it was firm without crushing.
‘Nick Rawlings, nice to meet you.’
(He’s still so dreamy.)
That’s not appropriate.
‘Well, I’m not sure they’re direct comparisons.’
(Why not?)
‘Why not?’ Alice said
Because he’s an old man and you’re eight years old.
‘Photos generally speaking are realistic moments in time, captured forever in minute detail. Paintings can’t record the same level of detail, and have more scope for amending the truth.’
(You sound just like my dad. I’m old enough to know who I like.)
‘You don’t think artists can capture reality?’ Alice asked.
Nick cocked his head slightly to the side and peered intently at Oliver.
Oliver licked his lips and metaphorically stepped forward gingerly. ‘I think with photos the reality is right in front of you. Painters are like writers, they can choose to show it like it is, or bend the truth to include their version of reality.’
I’m just telling you, whatever you felt back then, it’s different now. He’s a grown up and you’re a ghost.
‘I see what you mean,’ Nick nodded slowly. ‘Although consider this, the photographer also has the ability to bend the truth, by choosing to exclude things, through angle or filter.’
‘Which means, everyone has their own version of the truth,’ Alice concluded.
(I bet he still loves me. You have to let him know I’m here.)
‘No!’ Oliver said, and the other two looked at him with raised eyebrows. ‘Doubt, no doubt,’ he hastily added.
‘History is recorded by the victors,’ Nick said with a smile.
‘What about the murderers?’ Alice said.
Nick’s smile dropped away. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘We’re looking into the disappearance of Debbie Judkins and death of Brigid O’Shey.’
Nick’s left hand jerked, like he was trying to dislodge a fly that had landed on him. ‘This thing again. When will it go away?’
The way he spoke it was almost like it had happened last week rather than four decades ago.
‘I’d imagine when they find out what happened to the girls,’ Alice said.
Nick stared at her, then his expression softened. ‘I have to say, this is the first time I’ve been asked about it by someone of your…’
‘Advanced years?’
‘Too blunt?’
‘I like blunt,’ Alice replied.
Nick sighed. ‘I’ve certainly had enough of it over the years. Who exactly are you two?’
‘This is Oliver, an author of some repute, and I’m Alice.’
‘Also an author of repute?’
‘My reputation was earned in a different field.’
Oliver, who was feeling a little superfluous to the conversation, decided to get involved. ‘We understand that you’ve answered a lot of questions over the years about this, but some fresh information has come out and we need you to clarify a couple of things.’
Nick laughed bitterly. ‘Clarify a couple of things,’ he repeated. ‘Do you know how many times a police officer has asked me to clarify a couple of things. That request usually preceded a long session of endlessly repetitious questions.’
(Yeah, leave him alone.)
‘My kids are waiting in the other room, I’ve got time for about three questions before you hear one of them do something life threatening to the other.’
(Really?)
It’ll seem like it.
Nick’s mouth twitched and his body sagged as tension went out of it. ‘Alright, three questions. Go.’
Oliver hadn’t meant it literally but hadn’t been joking about his kids interrupting at any moment so frantically thought about the first question.
‘Were you aware that both girls had a crush on you?’
(It wasn’t a crush, it was love!)
‘It wasn’t hard to figure out,’ Nick said. ‘And to be honest it was a little flattering to thirteen-year-old me. All the kids my age thought I was weird because I wro
te poetry instead of playing rugby, so having their attention was good for my ego.’
‘Which is why you wrote them poems?’
Nick grimaced. ‘Those poems. The police found them hidden in Debbie’s room and that’s why they were convinced I had something to do with it.’
(I knew I should have buried them in the garden.)
‘I mean they weren’t even anything, just a few lines talking about summers days and one might have mentioned flowers and puppies or something. I don’t remember the exact wording. It’s not like it was serious poetry.’
(What? Didn’t he mean it?)
Oliver’s heart ached at hearing the doubt and wavering tone of Debbie’s voice.
I’m sure he meant it at the time. But he’s had a lot of years to get over it.
‘So you didn’t care for the girls?’ Alice asked.
Oliver shot her a deep frown and she returned a look of confusion.
‘They were little kids. I liked them, but if you’re asking if I had feelings for them, then absolutely not.’
There was the muted sound of sobbing and Oliver automatically glanced towards the entrance, expecting Rose to walk through with tears flowing down her face. Then he realised the crying was coming from inside his head. He wanted to comfort her, but it was a longer conversation than he had time for right now.
‘Did you know that Brigid and Debbie had a secret hiding spot, where they would put messages to each other and items special to them?’
Nick nodded. ‘I knew they had a place, they kept talking about it when they thought I wasn’t listening. But I never knew where.’
‘So you didn’t know that on the day she disappeared Debbie thought she was going to meet you,’ Oliver said.
Nick’s eyes widened and he took an involuntary step backwards, knocking into a wall and sending a framed photograph sliding sideways. With surprising speed Alice stretched out a hand and steadied the photo before it could fall.
‘No! Oh my god, do the police know that? It’s 1978 all over again.’ He buried his face behind both hands.
(Leave him alone.)
‘The police have no idea. Yet. And depending what you tell us there’s probably no reason to tell them.’
Nick’s hands slowly came away from his face and he took a deep breath, letting it out in ragged spurts.
‘I swear, I wasn’t going to meet her. You have to believe me.’
Which is what guilty people usually say, Oliver thought, sparking fresh outrage from Debbie.
‘I’m not saying you were going to meet her, but someone, someone who knew where the girls’ hiding spot was, left a note supposedly from you asking Debbie to meet you at the beach.’
‘That’s ridiculous. It could have been from anyone.’
‘It had one of your poems in it,’ Oliver said.
Nick looked at him, then switched back and forth between Alice and Oliver like he was watching a tennis match.
‘That… that doesn’t make sense.’
From the next room came an outraged exclamation. His children’s peace was coming to a rapid end.
‘Did anyone else have access to your poetry? Did you write them down in a book or show them to anyone?’ Oliver asked quickly.
‘I kept them in a book. I don’t think anyone saw them, but…’
‘But?’ prompted Alice.
‘Like I said earlier, writing poetry didn’t win me a lot of friends with the other kids. A couple of them were always trying to get my book away. Said they were going to burn it so I’d do proper kid things like sports.’
‘Who?’ Oliver asked. The sounds in the next room increased in volume and urgency.
‘I can’t remember. I’ve tried to forget as much of that time as possible over the years.’
Oliver glanced at the entrance in frustration as arguing voices approached.
‘It might be in my book though. One of them got it away from me and wrote his name in it before I could get it back. He laughed and said now it was worth something.’
‘Do you still have the book?’ Alice asked as Rose strode through the entrance, her face screwed up in anger, closely tailed by her brother.
‘Daaaadddd,’ Rose began.
Oliver held out a hand to stop her.
(They’re louder than me and my sister.)
‘I threw it out when everything happened,’ Nick said.
‘Damn,’ Oliver muttered.
‘But my grandmother pulled it out of the trash and kept it. When she died I discovered it in her possessions. It’s at home somewhere.’
‘Could you find it and let us know the name? Oliver will give you his number.’
He quickly pulled his wallet out and extracted a newly printed business card proudly proclaiming him a writer of novels. Nick barely looked at it before sliding it in his shirt pocket.
That’s when the dam holding back Rose’s patience broke, and she started loudly telling Oliver that her brother wasn’t letting her choose a video, and he always got to choose, and it wasn’t fair. A point she punctuated with tears that Oliver found he was rapidly becoming immune to.
He waited for the eye of the hurricane to come and into the silence asked, ‘Where’s my phone?’
Rose and Reed looked at each other.
‘I’ll get it,’ Reed said.
‘No I’ll get it,’ Rose countered, and they argued their way out of the room to where his phone was hopefully still sitting on the couch.
‘Don’t argue,’ he called futilely after them. ‘I better go,’ he said over his shoulder.
When he got to the entrance the children were engaged in a tug of war over his phone. He strode forward and snatched it away before it went flying.
‘Let’s go to the playground,’ he announced before the collective drawn breaths could explode into accusations and repercussions.
There was a chorus of yeses, including from Debbie, and Oliver shepherded them out the front door before anything expensive happened.
‘Just wait here a minute,’ he said as Reed immediately began to run towards the pedestrian bridge that took them over the main road to the water front. His son skidded to a halt and shifted from one foot to the other, either from unspent tension or the need to wee.
Alice came out of the building and ignoring Oliver, beamed at the children.
‘Hello, you two. Your father has told me so much about you.’
‘Who are you?’ Rose asked.
‘I am helping your father with some research.’
‘Research means searching for re’s,’ Reed told his sister.
‘Not quite, buddy,’ Oliver said. ‘It means I’m doing some homework.’
‘Yuck,’ Rose said.
(Yeah, yuck.)
‘I agree, yuck is the right word,’ Alice said, winking at Oliver. ‘But the best way to achieve your goal is to learn everything you can about it. That applies whether you’re playing a board game or…,’ she gave Oliver a sly smile, ‘…planning to rob someone.’
‘Cool,’ Reed said.
‘Not cool. It’s wrong to steal things,’ Oliver replied firmly.
‘But fun,’ Alice said with a grin.
‘Alice!’
She laughed. ‘Just joking, children. Your father is right, it’s against the law to rob people. Even if they deserve it,’ she added.
Rose smiled uncertainly.
‘Hopefully Nick will get back to you tomorrow. In the meantime I owe Graeme a coffee for helping out.’
‘Shouldn’t you owe his nephew a coffee?’ Oliver replied with mock innocence.
‘Why not, I haven’t broken any laws…that he’s aware of.’
‘Please don’t,’ Oliver begged. ‘I don’t want to have to explain to Amanda that you were arrested because I suggested you have coffee with a police detective.’
Alice pretended to look disappointed, then gave another sly smile and patted him on the arm.
‘I’ll stick to the uncle, he’s more my half century. Nice to meet you, k
ids.’ With a wave she walked briskly away.
Thank god I’ve never had to work with her and her granddaughter together.
He was equally thankful that all three children were easily distracted and a short walk later were happily climbing to the top of the fake lighthouse and whizzing down the slide back to earth. Two of them were happy anyway. Debbie couldn’t understand why Oliver preferred to keep his feet on the ground.
(Do you not like heights?)
No, that’s not it.
(Are you afraid you’ll get stuck on the slide and the fire engine will have to come and get you down, like this one time I saw a cat got stuck in a tree and…)
No, that’s not it either.
(Then what is it?)
The truth is he knew once he’d gone up the stairs, then the ladder, to the top, and slid down, he would be stuck in the cool parent loop, and have to repeat the process countless times. And he would get tired of it way earlier than his children, and it was harder to get out than it was to get sucked in.
‘Hey, kids. Why don’t we see if Mum can finish work early?’
Picking Mum up from work was a rare enough occurrence that all thoughts of protesting on having their playtime cut short were cut short.
He quickly typed a text message into his phone and hoped that Jennifer wasn’t in one of her endless meetings, and was able to leave work, otherwise he’d hear about it all the way home, and probably half the night.
Luckily his phone pinged with the response that she’d love to leave work early. Fifteen minutes later she climbed into the passenger seat and was immediately bombarded with information from the children on their day, ranging from Reed getting hit in the face by a dodgeball at school, to them meeting an ancient woman who was going to teach them how to steal from people.
Oliver gave her an “I’ll tell you later” look.
Later proved to be post dinnertime. With the children safely hypnotised by the television, Oliver filled her in on the day.
‘Oh,’ was her initial response. ‘And how are you feeling now, Debbie?’
(I’m okay.)
‘She says she’s okay,’ Oliver said.
‘But was it I’m okay,’ she feigned a bright smile, ‘or I’m okay,’ she continued with a glum expression.
(What’s the difference?)
Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Page 61
